


The Journey They Don't See

by viajeramyra



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23584360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viajeramyra/pseuds/viajeramyra
Summary: A missing conversation between Sergio and Martín in the monastery, giving more understanding to why Sergio was a little more forgiving to his part in setting Gandia free.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín, Palermo | Martín & Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 7
Kudos: 97





	The Journey They Don't See

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent a lot of time thinking about Sergio's understanding of Martín's break down inside of the Bank, and the consequences of his actions and decisions during the time period. I think there is a lot of things we don't see that further catapulted him to making some decisions without thinking on what they could carry. In trying to understand his psychology and his depth, this piece was born. 
> 
> It was also a good exercise for me to try and write some Sergio, even if it is biased by Martín's feelings and perspective.

Making his way back to mainland Italy had been enough to put him in a bad mood. To start, he’d been charged with contacting Bogotá and Marseille, an uncomfortable task, but only the beginning of what was to come. He hadn’t seen or spoken to them since they had helped dump him in that small hovel on Palermo. He was too bitter to care, he didn’t need their presence reminding him of all the things he longed to forget. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew they hadn’t carried him into the small house, only to throw him back down on the floor. No, each of them had supported half of his body even though one would’ve been enough for the task, particularly how limp his body had become. But, it was easier to accept the notion than to admit he had simply melted out of their arms once they reached the living room. Neither had spoken to him on the way there, and even if they’d been willing to try he wouldn’t have heard. The same words kept replaying in his head, leaving them ringing and his heart shattered.

They’d shut the door, giving him one last look of sympathy as the light left the room with them. Or, at least the light of the golden, setting sun as the last of its rays were closed off from the room, thick curtains drawn on the windows. The darkness surrounded him, but there was hardly a difference for him. The light in his life had closed on him, so many days ago. Andrés had never come back to the monastery, at least that he was aware of. Nothing ever seemed to be missing from the empty halls of the home they had purchased together. Not a single item had been rotated, the slightest frame hanging slightly at an angle which would give him the hope he so desperately clung to. He was worse off than any frightened child, arms tight around their mother’s neck as their face burrowed away from the nightmares. He had nothing. For the first time in eight years, he was alone without a friend in the world. Thrown out to sea, he was missing his lifeline and he was more than ready to drown.

But life was cruel, and no matter how hard or what he tried, he kept bobbing back up for air just as the cold tried to take him. Bogotá had found him, body crumpled as if he were one of the discarded pieces of paper he’d used to draw up plans for the heist. He’d rolled him onto his back, bringing him back to consciousness. Internally, he had tried so hard to fight back against his attempts to get him back to any semblance of health. His body could barely thrash against the far bigger man, and he failed at being able to do anything the moment Marseille started to help Bogotá. Traitors, the both of them, or so he had deemed. This was unforgivable, and the only joy he felt rise against all his anger and self-destruction was the moment they too were gone from his life. 

The second task was far more brutal, but there was no anticipating just how low the blow would settle. Sergio had insisted there was no better place for hiding than the monastery. He’d been too lost, twirling around the small room as he had so many nights before. It was easy to accept the blame wasn’t his for agreeing to any of this, from the elaborate plan he had once hoped was a love poem to communicate the true depth of his feelings, to the stone walls he had once found so welcoming.

“You talk too much,” he hummed to the beat of the music as he continued to twirl around the room with an invisible partner. Sergio had enlightened him his dance, long enough to have appeased just about anyone else. The exhaustion was evident in his eyes, but missed by Martín. He simply continued to dance in circles, around the table, around Sergio, as if stopping would bring the entire world to a halt with him. 

The entire conversation could still prove to be a figment of his imagination. After all, how often had he felt or seen Andrés in his damp living space? He was usually alive and breathing, as he rolled his eyes at whatever antics Martín jumped between. 

The few other times his imagination gave him something different—well, he was never prepared to digest the softer, sadder feeling which shattered the already broken piece of his heart on those nights. It would certainly be enough to make Sergio reconsider involving him in this heist if he knew the full depths of the madness overtaking his mind. 

“You said you wouldn’t do this without me,” he said as he finally slowed to a halt. He propped his back against the table, reaching for his bottle of milk only to remember he had sent the contents across the floor. The idea crossed his mind to search for the few drops around the room that hadn’t dried and stuck to new surfaces, but he had better control of his inhibitions in front of company. “Why?” 

“It’s your plan, I cannot complete it without your blessing.”

He softly shook his head from side to side, laughing as his body shook from the weak explanation. Perhaps he shouldn’t keep digging, looking for some deeper meaning of the explanation Sergio tried so desperately to cling to. He had learned his lesson about searching for answers. The wound was festering and infected inside of his soul, the only treatment six feet underground in an unmarked grave. He sighed, his body slumping lower as his energy started to wane. His eyes started to droop as the lazy smile plastered itself across his face. 

“Why?” He mumbled again, finally falling onto the floor. 

When he woke up, his body was somewhere slightly softer and his neck didn’t feel craned from being propped at a ninety degree angle. His eyelids felt no heavier than the night before, taking his thumb and pointer finger holding his eyelids apart to actually be able to see. On the small table next to his bed sat a glass of water and a few white tablets. It was confirmation enough the night before hadn’t been a dream, painting an entirely new emotion inside of his body. It felt warm, passionate, and lethal for the first time in far too long. He could dwell on this feeling, let it mix inside of him with his wound, and explode at just the right time. He could let go, he could relieve himself of some of his pain, at long last. 

His fingers gently traced a line of stone, bumping with the grooves and cracks of the infrastructure. Not a single line of dust captured his fingers, and he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of gratitude the place had been up kept. 

It was all too quickly replaced with the low grumble in his stomach as it churned. The overwhelming sense of venom and toxins inside his body seemed to branch from his gut up the rest of his body. He stumbled forward, the back of his left hand flying up instinctively as his cheeks grew wide. 

He had walked through the doors, just a few steps behind Sergio. But, invisible chains seemed to be pulling on his legs now making him falter. He was slowing more the further he tried to pull against his invisible restraints. They seemed to snake around him tighter, his chest pounding as he tried to fight back. His breath increasingly labored, short and shallow inhales through his mouth. He wanted to cry out, to scream for some sort of assistance he knew would never come. This place shouldn’t have been able to drag so much up, so quickly. He should have a better handle on his pain and grief over Andrés’ death by now. Had it not been inevitable, either by disease or design? 

No one seemed to notice the anxiety overtaking him, and he wasn’t sure if he ought to be grateful or curse them all to meet their doom in the Bank of Spain. It would suit his purposes best if he could just keep it together long enough to sneak into his own room, his own space to let his walls come down to pebbles at his feet. It would enable him to be an effective leader if they failed to see the broken pieces of his soul. Or, it would be enough to solidify he would never be one of them. They had been almost giddy as they walked into their— _his_ old home. There was their worry about the details of the plan and the ability to save infant Rio, but something still about being together again. Their comradery made him feel even worse. Had he not once had those same feelings, the same sense of belonging to something greater than just himself? 

He stumbled as he walked, an almost intoxicating feeling overwhelming his senses. He faintly heard Sergio give instructions about settling into their new living quarters and enjoying a few hours of solitude before they would get to business. He wanted to argue back as the group divided up the space between them. The doors were all unlocked and inviting, and he longed to rush ahead and lock all of them. Each held secrets, things that could come pouring out as soon as the doors were opened. No one belonged here anymore, the space should’ve been marked uninhabitable and knocked down with a bulldozer. He briefly considered grabbing a hammer from the tool kit they had kept stored away in one of the closets, and getting to work on the task himself. 

“Palermo? A word,” Sergio’s voice broke through to him, and he forced himself to stand upright. He grinned brightly at Sergio as he followed his lead. His eyes started to water the further they moved towards his most daunting memories. Far too long ago, the lighting in the room had been an ugly hue of yellow, candlelight mixing in with the cheap bulbs they had purchased from the local store. Now, the room had soft shades of bluish grey, the only light pouring in from the small, opened window directly ahead of them. 

The wall curved just as he remembered it. He was a few years younger, but an entirely different person. The chair was still broken in pieces where he had left it, but looking around the room long enough, time seemed to rewind. There was still some semblance of happiness in his life, as he sat at an angle in the chair, pencil in hand as he sketched plans. His tongue tapped against the roof of his mouth, as he indulged in his favorite fantasies. 

He hadn’t known then his wildest dreams were about to be given a fleeting rush of realism. If he had, he may have done everything in his power to make sure it had never come true. Or, he might have fought harder to make sure it never came to an end. It was hard to anticipate the depth of his regret, how far he was willing to go back to gain his life back. 

“Martín, I’ll need whatever plans you still have. Anything you don’t have copies off, we will have to quickly recreate. We only have a few weeks.” 

He came to attention as Sergio spoke. His heels clicked together as he stood tall, arm flying up in a mock salute. “Yes, sir,” he taunted, chuckling to himself. 

Sergio simply exhaled sharply, his patience still wearing thin. Martín was certain he wasn’t the only cause, but he couldn’t help the way his heart seemed to bump stronger from the satisfaction. It certainly wasn’t founded in memories of trying to impress the missing shadow, the one who had laughed along at every look of disapproval Sergio had been quick to express. 

But Sergio was following his gaze, which Martín had failed to realize rushed past Sergio’s head, and to the corner where the rounded wall had been christened by loving, passionate declarations spoken without a single word. His thumb slowly crept up to rub along his bottom lip, and he felt the first tear creep out of his eyes. 

“I know it can’t be easy to be back here,” Sergio whispered. His tone was apologetic, but Martín growled, like a threatened animal in response. Being in this room again was a reminder the beautiful monastery had been knocked down, but not by any builders or architects. The man standing in front of him had brought his Rome to its knees. 

“This is just a place I once lived,” Martín shrugged in response, attempting to place another brick on his personal defensive wall. “I’ve lived in plenty of places.” 

“Very well,” he replied. Something flashed in his eyes, forcing whatever sympathy he harbored for the man down to where it couldn’t be accessed. His face was stone cold, and calculating. His body stood perfectly tall, more the man he had first gotten to known than the one he had become. It would be a lot funnier how much love could change you, if he wasn’t also one of the men responsible for his own pain. 

“I remember enough of the plan, but we need to solve your miscalculations. It needs to be more practical, less grandiose,” Sergio continued as he walked over to Martín’s small desk. 

“Less flashy,” he nodded in agreement, as he started to move around the room, pulling out the few pieces of rolled papers he hadn’t shredded in his drunken rage. 

They’d worked into the better part of the night, somehow keeping enough distance from each other at the small desk they never fell into the other’s sphere. It was a mutual ground for some type of respect, but Martín knew deep down there was nothing there. He couldn’t imagine the amount of screw-ups the team had done on the heist. He knew enough to know there had to have been enough issues to result in three deaths. As if those weren’t enough, the recklessness of an ill-placed phone call had brought them altogether. He wouldn’t tolerate the behavior when he was in charge. 

He was content to be back at work again, his mind shifting between different timelines. It was so easy to want to sink back into the comfort of who he used to be, the lively, nerdy man who had been left behind as he was carried out the door. He wanted to start singing under his breath, as he had so many nights before. Those beautiful songs which reminded him of nights on the beach, or his years running around the streets of Buenos Aires, weren’t always solos. Sometimes, a softer head voice would join, humming along when he didn’t know all of the lyrics. 

For a moment, he could almost feel the soft hands, wrapped over each of his shoulders. They constricted softly, releasing slowly, before repeating the soft massaging motions. He moved his head from side to side, sinking into the soft touch. His chin tilted down, trying to hide just how far his smile had spread across his face, seemingly enlarging his chin. 

Soft, wet lips moved closer to his skin, coming to rest just behind his earlobe. “ _Martín,”_ the voice of his siren called out to him, across time and all the distance between them. 

“Martín. Martín. _Palermo._ ” 

He snapped back into the moment to see Raquel’s hand draped over Sergio’s shoulder, the both of them standing a few feet away from the desk now. He put his pencil down, glancing over to the silver watch sat on his wrist. “Bedtime already, Sergio? Your woman calling you to put your toys away?” He continued, bitterly. Sergio tensed, while Raquel’s eyes narrowed in response. He could care about the lasting impressions he was making about as much as he could care about his basic needs. 

“Dinner time,” Sergio said, nodding his head towards the hallway. 

“I’m not a dog, Sergio. I don’t need to be called to heel,” he muttered under his breath, standing anyway. “I’m sure you all have prepared something adequate.” 

His life continued to drift along, each day seemingly no different than the one before it. They had finalized some of the plans as best as they could, before it was quickly time to begin educating everyone else on the plan.

Sergio had insisted on displaying the portrait proudly against one of the walls in the classroom. He took a seat in the back, as far away from it as he possibly could. It still wasn’t enough, and he found himself wanting to grab the frame in his hands and break it over his knee. He’d remembered all too well the day he’d had it commissioned for Andrés’ birthday. His friend was always difficult to shop for. Whatever Andrés wanted, he had no problem purchasing or, in their more entertaining moments, stealing for himself. His patience always ran thin, and despite Martín’s insistence every year he just wait a few more weeks until the different holidays they shared, Andrés would come home within the next few hours with the item or the plans to get it.

They had agreed to leave the monastery to enjoy the day in Florence, Andrés growing far too restless staying locked within its walls. He had opted for a soft, cream color button up with a pair of dark blue jeans. For just about anyone else, it was a perfect example of casual wear. But, as he leaned closer to his vanity, comb in hand, he could see Andrés standing behind him. He had opted for his green velvet jacket, over a perfectly pressed black button up and black slacks. He had to bite down on the tip of his tongue to keep the compliments from flowing freely from his lips. The jacket had been his latest Christmas present to Andrés, one he had carefully had tailored and wrapped into a red and white striped box. It was his first attempt at buying him clothes that hadn’t been ruined by Andrés waltzing in on a random sunny afternoon wearing the same thing.

He had been right to assume Andrés was made for the dark, forest green. His darker features were well complimented by the color, and while it simply made Andrés’ eyes pop, it made Martín’s heart want to thump out of his chest and onto the floor. He was smirking back at him, the reflection of his eyes never breaking contact with Martín’s.

“I think another trip to Milan is becoming a necessity, Martín,” he teased, as his hand dragged from the top of Martín’s head, down to his feet. He knew he should probably be more offended, but in the moment all he could wish was to remove the feet of distance between them, and have Andrés actually running his hands down his body.

“And I think you need to buy some casual wear before you kill someone, looking like that.” He tried to stand tall as the words left his mouth, tasting the true depth of their meaning. Andrés would never reciprocate, would continue to play clueless to the things he did to him. But, it had to be okay. It always had to be enough they had any relationship at all. He wasn’t willing to put it all on the line, even as Andrés’ intoxicating chuckle escaped his body, chin tilted in the air. How he longed to drink him in, savor each and every drop of everything Andrés was. He would worship him the way he deserved, if only Andrés would give him permission. One word, one defining look granting him access to his every desire, he would take advantage of.

But it would never come.

It was impossible to avoid wanting to eternalizing him in some way. As they walked along the streets, filled with people going about their daily business, groups of tourists taking photos, and artists furiously moving their brushes to try and capture attention, he’d known exactly what he needed to do.

And Andrés’ smile said it all, as they began searching for the most deserving artist to commission.

“He was always a pompous ass,” he heard Tokyo mumble under her breath. Her small head nodded towards the photo, sat directly to her left as Nairobi giggled along. Martín’s fingers curled on the edge of the table in front of him, nails dragging in the grooves of the chipped wood. At least Nairobi had the decency to try and restraining her laughs as her eyes soaked in every line the painter had carefully brushed with oil.

Still, it was enough to make his head pound nonetheless. Andrés had died to get most of the people in this room safely out of the Mint. He had tried to find out exactly what happened in the final moments of Andrés’ life, wanting to know if he was willing to back down at all or if he had kept his head held high and proud. He couldn’t imagine the Andrés he knew ever being afraid of anything. He would’ve fought until it was too late for the police to get to his brother and his team, before he finally laid down his life in surrender. He had never known anyone so content to make peace with their death, only to move quickly into partying and soaking up the last few golden rays of sun. He had been all too ready to lay down his own life, certain it would go on for years and years long after Andrés departed.

“Out of anyone, of course Berlin would have a self-portrait,” Nairobi finally responded. From his seat, he could see her lip curled up in a soft smile. Hers seemed to offer some sort of respect, a soft nod of respect given to his memory. But as Tokyo continued to whisper about different aspects of the photo, Martín could feel the steam rising off the top of his head. His body was shaking, the table scrapping along the floor as he moved.

Sergio cleared his throat at the front of the classroom, his eyes landing decisively on Martín. A look of disapproval painted his features, his eyebrow lowered as his stern eyes looked at him over the rim of his glasses. His lips were curled, sinking into a small frown. Martín jerked his head quickly in Tokyo and Nairobi’s direction. Tokyo was trying her best to sit up straight, pretend she had been paying attention to the lecture. Nairobi’s shoulders were slouched, her head hanging a little lower as she tried to shrink in a way that would hopefully give her less attention. Sergio had made it very clear they were to follow along in his lessons, and had already gone so far as to remove Denver a few days ago for nearly starting a fight with Marseille.

“Anything that needs to be shared with the class?”

He could suddenly feel the heat begin to simmer inside of him, as if someone had forced a lid on top of a boiling kettle. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocking around the base of his skull as he kicked his feet back with a small shrug. When he looked at Sergio once more, he noticed an evident sadness softening his eyes, no longer focused on him but the painting in the corner. It was the same look he had as his eyes had watered, carefully trying to maintain his own pain, sorrow, and regrets as he’d been yelled at for not considering his brother’s death.

Martín needed to desperately look anywhere else but at Sergio. As he glanced to his left, he noticed Marseille still observing his every move. Bogotá had shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he were uncertain if he should join in on the joke or pass along the same looks of pity for the broken man who was having his entire world become the butt of every passing joke. Sergio was speaking once more, but all he could hear was the buzz of the room. He certainly didn’t have to stand for any of this. He already knew everything he needed to know, these lessons for the dimwitted idiots who were incapable of keeping concentrated for more than five minutes. How were they ever going to stand a chance at getting out of the thick steel walls of the Bank? They had barely managed to escape from the Mint, at the expense of others no longer there with them.

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to lay his life down for any of them. He pushed back from the table, walking back to his room without ever once looking over his shoulder to see if they even noticed he was gone. His ears never missed the way he heard them quickly bring their conversations to a halt whenever he entered the room. They continued their conversations the moment they felt safe, as if he would attempt to join in on the laughs and gossip. They made his decisions about each of them the first time Andrés’ name had been brought up in a conversation about proper behavior and how to avoid the same mistakes made in the Mint. His fist had curled at his side, teeth grinding despite the crushing pain in his jaw. Whatever decision Andrés had deemed necessary, he was ready to defend. He was ready to follow the same pattern of thinking, if they stood a chance at following the steps of the plan.

He failed to notice just how much his body was shaking, until he tripped forward the moment he opened the door to his bedroom. His left foot stumbled, his right unable to bring back his balance as he came crashing to the ground. He kicked the door shut as he rolled onto his back. He rubbed the part of his head where he had hit the ground, but stayed on the floor. It truly didn’t matter where he was, or what he did. His hand reached out under the bed, grabbing one of the bottles. He spun the top off, quickly bringing the lukewarm liquid in streams down his throat.

As he closed his eyes, his mind began to wander. He could see the bottle of wine he’d wrapped his hands around so carefully, setting it out as his first temptation. They’d spent so many nights drinking, avoiding the unspoken thing between them. Well, the unspoken thing he’d held inside of him for years, certain there was nothing more than brotherhood and friendship being directed back at him. How he prayed to God the moment the truth had been revealed he could just go back in time and confront it all sooner. The moments they’d been so close together, he could’ve just reached out and laid it all out on the line.

Kissing Andrés was both the highest ascent into Heaven’s graces he had ever been granted, and the hardest blow to his world he would ever be cursed to survive.

It had lasted far longer than he dreamed in his wildest fantasies, and yet somehow was just another fleeting minute of his life.

Andrés said he would’ve given anything to feel this thing completely, but he knew the hidden truth between his words. It had taken him many sleepless nights to accept the hidden message, so carefully wrapped and locked away. It had nothing to do with him being a man, it had everything to do with that damned diagnosis, the finish line moved up so much sooner than either of them wanted.

The knock on the door ripped him away from his thoughts, and he groaned knowing he couldn’t ignore who was on the other side. How he wished he had done so from the beginning.

Unlike this time, when he opened the door it wasn’t at the expense of his own chagrin. Last time, he had hoped the face on the other side of the door would confirm something had finally worked, that he had finally been ripped away from the cold existence he loathed and returned to him in the only way he knew how.

“Professor,” he said with a smile, but it never reached his dead eyes. They stung, and he didn’t need to look at himself to know just how red they were. He didn’t even try to wipe away the pain. It was better to let it overtake his senses than feel nothing at all. He swayed from the door, one hand still wrapped around the handle while the other kept him grounded by holding onto the door head. His head rested against the panel, as his lip puffed out in a pout. “Have I been a naughty student?”

Sergio closed his eyes, as if to carefully weigh anything about to come out of his mouth. It was, in a way, so much worse than all the condolence communicated silently between them. He didn’t want to be receptive to anything Sergio could offer him, but the warmth called out to him as if it were a warm fire, willing to envelope him and shoulder part of his grief. He let go of the door, walking backwards further into the room.

“We don’t have time for outbursts like that,” Sergio said carefully, as he closed the door behind him. His voice commanded the air around him, far less the humbled man who had dragged him out of his pit of misery. It was interesting to see this colder, calculating side of Sergio once more. He had seen pieces of it when Andrés called him to assist in their heist, but he had tried to remain reserved. Now, he was the puppet master, pulling all the strings and making all of the decisions.

But Martín refused to be one of his toys he could control. He was not going to subject himself to the level of trust required to play the role he was never made for. He was the engineer, the planner, not the leader he needed to step up and become. He didn’t have the strength for the role, even in his best of times. It certainly didn’t matter. He had agreed to step into larger shoes, into the persona of the man who had always been so much larger than him in his capabilities, in his strength.

“I’d love to say I didn’t start it, but it doesn’t matter to you, does it?” He scoffed, harshly.

Sergio took a mindful step back, increasing the distance between them as the acid continued to boil. It only made his twisted smile grow, hands coming to rest on his hips. He knew Sergio didn’t have the knowledge of just how deeply his hatred ran. He had no idea the depths of the holes he and Andrés had torn inside of him, because he didn’t know what his grand reveal had caused to finally transpire between the two men.

“I cannot pretend my brother is flawless in their eyes, the way he is in yours.”

Martín nodded once, though he disagreed strongly with the statement. Sergio always thought he saw the whole picture, when his face was pressed against the glass and only capable of seeing the finer details of one section. He knew better than to elevate the man to an untouchable status. He knew each and every one of Andrés’ faults better than he knew anything about himself. He had become so consumed in his love, and it was never blind. His thoughts and feelings were only proven the moment they expressed their final goodbyes, him falling to his knees as Andrés never looked back once.

“And you saw all his faults, huh? You think...you think you know who your brother was?” The words were a challenge, no matter how hard they were to express. He choked on each one as they escaped him. He wondered just how much the question was for himself as it was for Sergio.

“My brother is— _was_ a lot of things. But, he was never a good liar around me. Not around _you._ ” Sergio replied after a moment. Each word was being moved as if it were a piece on a chessboard. But Martín was not the chess player Sergio was. His hands longed to pull from the bottom of the board, and flip it hard enough to send all the players crashing in different directions and into shards.

“You got me here. Your flattery and your friendship mean nothing to me.”

“I know why you are so angry with me, Martín. I know you blame me for him leaving you, but I had to do what I thought was in his best interest.”

“You don’t know anything,” he raged, as his hand knocked over one of the tiny bookshelves. The outburst was childish and he knew it, but it was better than crossing the distance between him and Sergio, and swinging his fist across the other man’s face.

“He was too in love with the plan, and you were too in love with him to see how it would kill you both,” he said, standing his ground, never flinching as a few discarded books scattered around their feet. “Or, so I thought. I’ve wondered if I might have considered things much differently if I had my eyes opened to everything back then.”

“To love, you mean? To love you claimed you’d never understand,” he twisted his hand as he bowed at his middle, as if he were giving mock congratulations to a champion at the end of a competition, “yet now you claim you do?”

“Circumstances have changed, and I admit I was wrong then. I know there is a part of this story I am missing, one neither of you ever shared nor will ever share with anyone else.”

If he could be impartial, he was certain he could pick up on the apologetic hints of the word, wishing he could change the way fate had played its cards for both of them. He was trying so hard to hide the fact the weight of the crushing loss had effected them both. They stood a chance at understanding each other, if they would just look past the bad blood between them.

“If I had been more open to these sort of things back then, maybe the story would be different. I do apologize for who I had been back then. I have a better understanding now.”

Martín threw his head back, the cackle escaping him seemingly against his will. “Do you want a victory dance? Do you think I’d congratulate the forty-year old virgin for finally getting fucked? No, dear Sergio, I certainly don’t give a damn about your development or your happiness.”

Something stronger seemed to wash over Sergio at those words, as he inched closer to Martín. It was the same rage his brother would be overtaken by, far too often by the smallest of triggers. He was lost to his own misery, his wound flowing freely and completely grounded in the one direction he could actually release it in. If who he used to be could just envelope him for a brief moment, perhaps he would have felt an ounce of remorse for the harshness of his words. But, the notion was far too out of reach.

Sergio seemed to collect himself once more, which only further his frustration. He wanted to feel his rage redirected back at him. “And with a cop, no less,” he grumbled. Crueler words floated in the forefront of his mind, tasting foreign on his tongue but offering the satisfaction.

Almost as if he could sense what was about to happen, Sergio quickly cut him off. “There is no need to drag Raquel into this.” His tone was final, threatening enough to make Martín’s lips purse tightly together. He caged the words away once more, reluctant as he may be to accept the line drawn in the sand.

He quickly adjusted himself, standing tall. “That’s rich coming from you, no? No relationships, no emotions,” he said as he pretended to fix glasses on his face much like Sergio would. The slight roll of his eyes was not missed by Martín, as he continued to drag on, “No attachments. That is why you brought my house crumbling to the ground, you son of a bitch.”

“You can blame it all on me, if you need to in order to move on. But, you do need to be able to release all of this before we go into the Bank. I cannot do this without you.”

The shift was subtle, the defense mechanism building itself back up as he tried to present himself as the professor and not as something more human. He wished it were so easy for him to reach inside of himself and simply flip a switch. Perhaps he would have moved on from all of his pain by now if he could do so. But, there wasn’t those robotic tendencies for him. He was all pure, raw emotions and always had been no matter what end of the scale they fell on.

Still, he had to acknowledge he didn’t blame all of this on Sergio’s shoulders. At the end of the day, Andrés had made his choices and stood by them. Sergio’s knowledge of the affair between them was simply a catalyst. It had been building just as long as any love between them, increased by the medical diagnosis and cold calculations.

He felt the bricks he had tried to build around himself coming down like a sandcastle being washed away by strong waves. “He loved me,” he whispered, the tears flowing freely from his face. “Or at least he claimed to love me. I’m certain none of it was ever completely true.”

The cynicism seemed to melt away from Sergio’s features, or at least the emotion Martín was projecting onto him was gone. His eyes were softened once more, mirroring the same expression he had worn when he’d been accused of not taking his brother’s death into consideration when crunching all the final numbers for his plans.

Martín’s legs felt as if they were made of jelly, as he finally crumpled to the ground. Sergio’s own body movements seemed to be timid now, uncertain of what he should do in order to move forward. He took a step back for two steps forward, looking as if he may finalize his decision by crouching, until he finally sat down across from him.

“If he said it, I know he meant it,” he tried to say, in a low voice of comfort and promise. It wasn’t enough for Martín to completely accept. After all, he was never going to be the right brother. He was never going to be the one who could persuade all of the demons trapped inside to vacate as quickly as they came. The idea seemed ludicrous, Sergio trying to offer him solace in an idea he still knew so little about.

“Don’t bullshit me,” he whispered, though he longed to wrap himself up in the words, in the notion Andrés loved him in return even half as deeply as Martín loved him. There would never be any certainty in any of it.

“Involving you may be too much.”

This time, the words reflected less on the man in charge trying to keep the team safe, but out of the small piece of concern he could offer him. He should appreciate the gesture far more than he was capable of. Instead, he simply shook his head, his sleeves trying desperately to dry a storm. “I gave you my word,” he said, as he forced himself weekly to his feet once more. “Even if we both hate it, you and I know you cannot go in there without me.”

His words were prideful, trying to evoke the same strength as the man he loved above all else. Here in these halls, there would be enough of Andrés to draw off of. He knew no one would ever understand him the way he did, and the insults to his legacy may continue to float around. He would simply have another thing he would have to shoulder alone. His pain was a loan, a debt he would never be able to repay so what was taking yet another advance to get through the next few weeks?

Sergio slowly raised as well, and seemed to once again take on his persona. “I will remove you from your position if I deem you incapable.” The statement wasn’t meant to be a threat, even if he tried to communicate its seriousness. It seemed softer than the way his brain processed it, but he didn’t care. He needed it to be cold, he needed to force the pieces of him back together if it killed him.

He stuck his hand out, wrapping around Sergio’s firmly as their hands shook. The simple human touch filled part of his cracks, as his tears dried. He had given his word, and this poem he had started still needed to be completed. The story he had drafted so long ago, in each intricate detail of the heist, would be completed.

But as Sergio walked out of the room once more, leaving him alone once more, he wasn’t sure how consistent of an author he’d prove to be.


End file.
